


Maybe Eight

by floosilver8



Series: Maybe Eight [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Arguing, F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, mollock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 19:31:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1953393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floosilver8/pseuds/floosilver8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly and Sherlock have a few things to get out of their systems.</p><p>For <a href="http://conchepcion.tumblr.com/">Conchepcion</a> and everyone who liked my little head-cannon. Hopefully it's as good as you imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe Eight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [conchepcion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/conchepcion/gifts).



Molly had woken up that morning more than a little depressed. It had been exactly nine months since the imploding of her engagement to Tom, and the universe was apparently bent on fucking with her. The wedding websites she had signed up for last year all sent automated emails once again congratulating her, and reminding her of the things that needed to be done for a “Picture Perfect Wedding”.

And when she was getting ready to leave for work (the late shift, joy) she found some of Tom’s clothes in the back of her wardrobe. It took a bit of effort to pick herself up off the floor and stop sobbing. She knew perfectly well that her tears were not for the loss of Tom – who was perfectly okay except not at all right for her. No, the tears were only because of the failure of a relationship. All of the time and effort ended up being for naught. There weren’t even any grand life lessons that she could chalk up on the positive column. Well, other than she now knew she was capable of failing so miserably at being happy.

Promising to get on with life, she dressed, packed a snack for her 1am break, and scowled all the way to St. Bart’s.

 

Sherlock was in a snit. The stupid case that John _made_ him take - even though it was only a _five at best_ – turned out to be embarrassingly difficult to solve. None of the pieces were falling into place as they should. Everything was _shit_.

What was worse was that Molly hadn’t spoken to him in weeks - ever since he returned from his 4 minute exile, basically. To his knowledge she didn’t know about that – which was how he wanted it. He hadn’t needed her help to solve the Return of Moriarty idiocy because it turned out to be so beneath even himself. Kids with computers – _ugh!_ They exposed the hacker kid, and the Magnussen fuck up had been swept under the table, so everything was supposed to go back to normal.

Except _she_ hadn’t.

He had gone to Bart’s on the first case that called for it, but she wouldn’t stay in the room. She had tersely recited whatever was known about the body and then said nothing else. After that, she didn’t return his texts, didn’t bring him body parts for experimentation, and definitely didn’t care to be around him anymore than her job required. Last Friday he used the lab as per usual, and she had immediately picked up a stack of papers and worked in her office - with the door locked and a chair wedged under the door handle for good measure. Stamford himself seemed baffled by her sudden exit.

So he hadn’t gone back since. If she didn’t want to talk to him, he didn’t want to talk with her either. He wouldn’t even let himself consider for a second that that was a shame. Because she _was_ the most competent member of Bart’s huge staff. And she had always helped him before. Had even been friendly. Very friendly. His best friend, next to John and Lestrade. But no, no. He could shut her out just as she was doing.

Lestrade had the Five’s ( _gah_! Sherlock flatly refused to increase the interest level on this case) body moved to Bart’s morgue that afternoon. John had the day free to solve crimes with him – which ordinarily would have been nice, but somehow didn’t move him at all today. It was around 7pm when he realised he needed to go examine the body again. And he definitely needed to cross-analyse the soil samples. It wasn’t until 8pm when he finally gave in to John’s pleas for action and found himself facing his brusque pathologist once again.

She opened the body bag swiftly, listed the known injuries and important characteristics, and thrust the clipboard in John’s hands before stepping back to busy herself with something else. Seeing his stupid gorgeous face in her morgue was making her annoyance-level rise steadily. Being the only person on duty she couldn't ignore him entirely. Never in her life had she ever been so furious with another person. She almost gave herself a paper cut while blindly shuffling through some random file.

Sherlock examined the body through a cloud of anger. No, not anger. What did he have to be angry about? She did her job and he couldn’t fault her for it.

“I need a swab of the bottom of his foot,” he announced politely. Well, he thought it was polite. As he reached for a Petri dish and swab to take care of it himself, she snapped her folder down, startling both him and John.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked tensely, startling herself a little but trying hard not to let it show.

“What are you talking about? I trust I don’t need to repeat myself.” He opened the jar of swabs, only to have her reach over and snatch it away.

“This is hospital property which you do not have authorisation to use, and certainly not on patients of which St. Bart’s is the custodian. Your ‘special’ permissions extend as far as the Met’s. If you need something done, you must _ask_. Just like every other _outsider_ , Mr. Holmes,” she snapped.

“ _What_?” he growled angrily.

“I trust I don’t need to repeat _myself_ ,” she shot back.

Sherlock glared and took a deep breath in preparation to retort, but John cut him off. “Just let her do it, mate,” he said with a firm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock refused to be pulled back and instead stood silently next to her while Molly did the swab. When she was finished he requested scrapings of the dirt under the victim’s fingernails, narrowing his eyes further at her with each of her movements - that looked like they were full of spite. When she had finished, she set the samples down on the counter across from the corpse instead of handing them over.

She stood by them protectively and waited for the next request with a slight snarl. “Anything else?” she asked after they had just glared at each other for a moment. He was not going to win while she was around. She would not let him bend the rules and walk all over her anymore.

“No, _Miss Hooper_ , that’s all for now,” Sherlock said rather smugly, ignoring John’s warning look.

She took a deep breath and set her jaw. “Fine.”

“Those samples need to be cross-analysed with the ones found at another crime scene. Which I happen to have, _with_ the Met’s permission,” he finished pointedly.

“Fine,” she said again tensely, stepping forward and putting Mr. Henri back in his storage drawer with more force than was necessary. Gathering up the samples, she strode quickly out the doors and to the lift, praying it would arrive before they followed her.

Of course it didn’t. And the ride up to the lab was deadly silent.

Sherlock had been the last one in the lift and strode out first. However, he held the lab door open for her and John, with an obviously disingenuous smile. She didn’t acknowledge him as she passed, but John shot him yet another warning look. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, silently relenting.

Molly set her samples down in her usual work spot and just looked at them for a moment. She seriously considered delaying the process, but couldn’t bring herself to do it knowing a case was as-yet unsolved.

Sherlock shrugged off his coat, extracted his own samples from the other crime scene and began to prepare. A glance up and he saw her just standing at her station not moving. How dare she not cooperate with cases!

A few strides brought him next to her work spot, where she was now moving rather slowly. He began to take a box of clean slides off of the shelf near her, but her hand shot out and took it away from him.

She could never explain why she did it. The thought struck her and she carried out the petulant action without realising it. Sherlock’s annoyed grumble sent a wave of satisfaction through her. He was feeling _something_. Good.

Sherlock let her have her win. A second box was on the same shelf, and as he moved a fraction to take it, she snatched it away from him just as quickly. With both boxes of slides in her hands she turned to walk haughtily past him.

“Why are you acting like this?!” he growled, keeping her from stepping away.

A sudden burst of confidence brought her up straighter, “What? Keeping you from stealing hospital property? Or not bending to your every whim?” The tone and volume of her voice was a little surprising.

“You know very well this is for a case!”

“Oh, and the plethora of instruments you’ve pilfered over the years were also for cases?!” her voice rose to meet the volume of his.

“YES!” he fully yelled, towering over her.

“Enough!” John shouted at them. They both immediately took a step back. He had stood by and let them slowly build but he had to pipe up now that the volume was surely reaching the other floors of the hospital. “It’s late and I have to go home to my wife and _real_ child. You two have to try not to kill each other, okay?” He detoured on the way to the door to grab his friend by the arm and whisper, “Solve the damn case, Sherlock and then shut the hell up.”

Even with John now gone the tension hadn’t dissipated at all. They both continued to breathe heavily and fume. Molly took one box to her microscope, leaving the other for him on the counter, but not saying a word or even looking at him. She clenched her jaw as she prepared her slides, anger still building within her.

Sherlock snatched up the other box of slides and strode angrily back to his station. His breathing hadn’t returned to its usual rate, and he was fully aware of the frustration he still felt with her.

They both worked in silence for another hour, their moods apparently not changing at all. Occasionally Sherlock would set something down with more force than he meant to, breaking through the otherwise silent room. Molly would respond with a similar action shortly after, and on the third time sent him a scathing look. It only renewed his annoyance with her behaviour.

When he had finished digitising all of his sample findings and notes, he paused to watch her for a moment. She was still scowling and in his mind, working rather slowly. “Aren’t you finished yet?” he snapped.

She meant to take a deep breath before answering but it was rather shallow, making it difficult to relax. So she settled for just glaring at him.

“For God’s sake, Molly give me half of what you have left to do.” He rose and stormed over to her station, ready to take them from her if he had to. He stood probably too close to her, his hand inadvertently grazing her back.

“Sherlock!” she snapped in warning, desperately wanting to push him away.

“Give me the samples! The sooner we finish the sooner I’ll leave. ...Since you find it so _distasteful_ to be around me anymore,” his tone was intentionally antagonistic.

“As if you care what I think!” Molly turned fully toward him still on her stool, causing her knees to brush his. He didn’t move back, however. With his one arm on the table and his body turned into her, she realised she was sort of trapped.

“What the hell are you on about?” he snapped. “WHY are you acting like this?!”

“Because you didn’t tell me you were going to your death! I had to find out from Mary!” she hadn’t meant to say it, but it was the truth.

“Well _you_ hit me! AND you didn’t visit me after I got shot!” he leant further into her space and stared her down.

“I slapped you because you were being an arsehole!” she sat as straight as she could, their faces almost on the same level.

“Of course I was! THAT’S WHO I AM!” he shook with rage.

“AND DON’T I KNOW IT!” she shot up from her stool and tried to edge past him to gain some personal space back. But he stepped into her path and blocked her again. She huffed angrily and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest.

“Oh _now_ I understand,” he said, tone dripping with condescension. “How long has it been since Meat Dagger? Apparently too long. Why don’t you go find someone to shag and lighten up!”

She couldn’t believe her ears - Sherlock Holmes and his nerve! Without dropping his gaze, she quickly stepped closer in order to show she was not at all intimidated by him. “Well ‘seven times a night at Baker Street’ didn’t do anything to improve _your_ attitude!”

His scowl returned for a moment before he grabbed her arms and pressed her back against the table. “What-?” she squirmed but he held her firmly. In a flash his lips had crashed down onto hers. The shock of it made Molly freeze in place, but her lips returned his pressure automatically. As the kiss continued, they both melted into each other. Sherlock felt like a spring wound up tight and the more he kissed Molly, the more deliciously tight it became.

He pulled from their embrace enough to whisper, “Maybe eight times will be the difference,” against her lips before capturing them again.

This time, Molly was ready and tilted her chin up, eager to taste him again. His words and their implication sent a shiver down to her groin. They attacked each other at first, tongue and teeth clashing and needy. Her fingers clenched at his shirt, wrinkling the expensive fabric, which elicited a small moan from Sherlock’s throat.

He pressed his whole body into hers, keeping her in place and dying for more contact. He broke their passionate snogging to lay firm and hungry kisses to her jaw, travelling to her ear and suckling sweetly at her skin.

Her breath was heavy and ragged, and her death-grip on his shirt shifted to his waist. She arched her back against him, and gasped as he moved down her neck and shoulder.

Her hips rubbed tantalizingly over his quickly hardening cock, drawing out yet another throaty moan from him. His grip shifted to hold her around the shoulders and side of the head, his fingers splayed to touch as much of her as possible.

“Sherlock,” she whispered breathily, daring to trail her hands down just over his arse. “What are we doing?”

"Finally expressing our feelings for each other,” he continued to suckle kisses into her shoulders and neck between each word.

“Mmmm...” she moaned into his shoulder as his grip shifted to cup her breast. “I get that, but where is this going?”

He massaged her nipple through her blouse and bra, peppering her clavicle with kisses. “Well, I’m hoping you’ll agree to continue this indefinitely. I’ve been an ass but I need you, Molly. You’ll have to move into Baker Street as soon as possible.”

She grinned and gripped him tighter. This shift was going much better than she had anticipated. “Okay,” she shifted to coax his face back level to hers and kissed him deeply again. “But we still have a case to finish.”

Sherlock froze mid-kiss, suddenly realising the whole point of him being there. “Shit,” he swore softly while pulling away and pressing his forehead to hers. They only had to finish working on the samples. But surely they would keep. “Forget it,” he said diving back in to capture her lips.

Molly giggled brightly and squirmed, pushing him back slightly. “No, Sherlock,” she said grinning, “solve this now.” His face fell into a full pout and she almost gave in. But she was at _work_ , and there was a murderer on the loose!

She was right, this wasn’t the most opportune time. And he could get everything wrapped up in a few hours, leaving them a full day of revisiting what they had been barrelling towards. He sighed and dropped his chin to his chest in defeat. “Fine,” he said sadly and then snapped back up suddenly to kiss her once again. “But you have to come to Baker Street as soon as your shift’s over to pick up where we left off, right here. No excuses.”

She smiled sweetly and nodded, “Promise.”

 

The next few hours passed quickly. They both made moony faces at each other while they worked, and Sherlock had soon solved the case – jealous lover, how cliché. Before he left to wrap up with Lestrade and prepare for the continuation of their earlier activities, Sherlock stopped to grab her face and kiss Molly with every ounce of passion he could put forth.

“I meant what I said last year,” he said after releasing her lips. “You are the one that matters most. Don’t forget that.” He kissed her again once before turning and striding out of the lab, his coat billowing dramatically behind him.

Molly could only grin and watch him leave. Yes, this had been a much better day than she had expected. And it looked like it was going to turn into a much better life as well.


End file.
